Hazard of New Fortunes, a — Complete eBook

following: he would be too costly, and would
have too many enemies among his brethren, even if he
would consent to undertake the job. Fulkerson
had a man in mind, an artist, too, who would have
been the very thing if he had been the thing at all.
He had talent enough, and his sort of talent would
reach round the whole situation, but, as Fulkerson
said, he was as many kinds of an ass as he was kinds
of an artist.

PG EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:

Anticipative homesickness
Any sort of stuff was good
enough to make a preacher out of
Appearance made him doubt
their ability to pay so much
As much of his story as he
meant to tell without prompting
Considerable comfort in holding
him accountable
Extract what consolation lurks
in the irreparable
Flavors not very sharply distinguished
from one another
Handsome pittance
He expected to do the wrong
thing when left to his own devices
Hypothetical difficulty
Never-blooming shrub
Poverty as hopeless as any
in the world
Seeming interested in points
necessarily indifferent to him
Servant of those he loved
Sigh with which ladies recognize
one another’s martyrdom
Sorry he hadn’t asked
more; that’s human nature
That isn’t very old—­or
not so old as it used to be
Tried to be homesick for them,
but failed
Turn to their children’s
opinion with deference
Wish we didn’t always
recognize the facts as we do

A HAZARD OF NEW FORTUNES

By William Dean Howells

PART SECOND

I.

The evening when March closed with Mrs. Green’s
reduced offer, and decided to take her apartment,
the widow whose lodgings he had rejected sat with
her daughter in an upper room at the back of her house.
In the shaded glow of the drop-light she was sewing,
and the girl was drawing at the same table. From
time to time, as they talked, the girl lifted her
head and tilted it a little on one side so as to get
some desired effect of her work.

“It’s a mercy the cold weather holds off,”
said the mother. “We should have to light
the furnace, unless we wanted to scare everybody away
with a cold house; and I don’t know who would
take care of it, or what would become of us, every
way.”

“They seem to have been scared away from a house
that wasn’t cold,” said the girl.
“Perhaps they might like a cold one. But
it’s too early for cold yet. It’s
only just in the beginning of November.”

“The Messenger says they’ve had a sprinkling
of snow.”

“Oh yes, at St. Barnaby! I don’t
know when they don’t have sprinklings of snow
there. I’m awfully glad we haven’t
got that winter before us.”

The widow sighed as mothers do who feel the contrast
their experience opposes to the hopeful recklessness
of such talk as this. “We may have a worse
winter here,” she said, darkly.